Fortes Fortuna Juvat
by KnightMara
Summary: Fortune Favors the Brave. A series of vignettes depicting Kyp Durron's ability to survive as a solitary figure in a dangerous galaxy.
1. Chapter 1: Kessel, Age 9

_Fortes Fortuna Juvat_

By KnightMara

Disclaimer—I do not own any of the characters created by George Lucas or Kevin J. Anderson, or Timothy Zahn, or any of the other writers officially writing for the GFFA. I am simply playing in George's playground, that's all.

A/N: This is a story that might have several parts to it, depending on whether or not a lot of people read and enjoy it (and I won't know that unless people review). I was just thinking about how Kyp Durron has always managed to survive throughout the EU, and wondered how it was he had managed to make it to the Jedi Academy Trilogy in the first place. I mean, according to his back-story, he was orphaned in the mines of Kessel at the age of nine (or ten, since KJA changed his age twice during the trilogy—I read REALLY carefully, obviously). So this story is about Kyp and his uncanny ability to survive. I know he may not seem terribly brave in this first installment, but I think there is an inner courage that keeps him alive, along with good luck.

So anyway, on with the story:

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Kessel—Age 9

He was alone.

He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he knew it with the same kind of certainty that he knew his own name, or that the breath mask he wore was keeping him alive in the darkness. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he pressed his small body more tightly against the rock wall behind him and stared unseeing at the darkness that surrounded him.

He was alone.

His body shuddered and an icy tear traced a frigid path down his cheek until it met with the edge of his mask and seemed to freeze there. Never again would his mother touch his shoulder in reassurance, her eyes sad but determined. Never again would his father stand in front of them, his arm stretched out just slightly at his side to shield his family from the unwelcome attention of the guards or other prisoners. Never again would he sit tightly between them, absorbing his parents' warmth as the mining cars plunged them into icy darkness. Never again would he curl up in his bunk and think the words his mother had told him time and time again, "We have each other."

Now, he had no one.

He heard blaster shots from far away, too far to cast even a tiny thread of light upon the utter blackness that engulfed him. He pulled himself even more tightly into the wall, the heating unit of his thermal suit digging into his back as he willed himself to simply disappear. Maybe he would disappear if he tried hard enough, vanishing into the darkness of the caves. Or maybe someone would find him and take him to Carida, like they did with Zeth, and then he wouldn't be alone anymore.

He shivered, and his stomach twisted painfully at the memory of his brother—Zeth didn't know. Zeth didn't know that they were gone. Then again, Zeth might be gone, too. He didn't know anymore, couldn't tell if his brother was alive or dead. His parents, though—he knew that they were dead, and the emptiness created by their passing consumed him. They were dead, and he was alone.

He shivered again, this time more violently, and he barely had time to remove his mask before his stomach twisted itself so hard that he doubled over, gagging as his most recent meal spilled onto the cold rock beside him. He tried to draw a breath, couldn't, and saw bright spots before his eyes. Cold-numbed fingers grasped at the rock wall as he panicked at the immediacy of the sudden internal war taking place in his mind. He could leave the mask off and join his family, dying a slow, suffocating death in the oxygen-poor mines. Or he could replace the mask and live. Already his lungs were straining to pull whatever oxygen there was into his rapidly starving body, and his eyes began to tear at the lances of icy pain that filled him with each strangled breath.

More lights flashed before his eyes, but with the roaring of blood in his ears, he could not tell if they were real or the effects of suffocation. Blinking rapidly, he saw the veins of glitterstim in the wall beside him, and he realized that the lights were real, that someone was coming.

Another flash of light, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the brightness hit him like a physical blow. Instinctively, he retreated further against the wall, but his head was practically humming from lack of air, and he found his fingers fumbling for his mask almost independently of his brain, as though his arms had decided that he didn't want to die yet, even though his brain was still considering the option.

His clumsy fingers had not yet managed the mask when he heard a muffled voice cry, "Here's another one."

Before he had the power to react, someone had taken a rough hold of his arm, yanking him at once off of the ground and slinging him like a rag doll until he hung limply over someone's shoulder. "A runt, this," the person carrying him said.

Mask still dangling under his chin, he felt his consciousness slip away.

A not-so-gentle kick to his ribs brought him back to reality, and he curled up in a ball on the floor where he had been clumsily deposited. People were yelling above him, but he could not hear what they were saying. It was all a dull roar, and he didn't care. He didn't want to hear. He didn't want to be among these people. He wanted to be alone—as alone as he felt inside, as alone as he knew he was. He wanted to go back to the darkness.

Someone was gripping him under the arms and pulling him off the floor, and he tried to resist. He didn't want to get up.

A whispered voice in his ear urged, "Get up, kid. Quick." It was a man's voice, urgent and scared.

Something in the man's voice convinced him to allow himself to be helped to his feet, though he wavered weakly, blinking in the lights of the muster room. He sensed rather than saw the crowd of prisoners surrounding him. The scent of blood, sweat, and fear hung heavily among them.

" . . . new management," a harsh voice was saying. "The Empire doesn't live here anymore! You work for us, now!"

A heavy silence followed this.

"Delta team," another voice bellowed. "Casualty detail. I want these bodies out of here, now. Save the thermal suits."

Bodies? His brain worked sluggishly to understand. There were bodies? His eyes scanned the room numbly, but all he could see were the thermal-suited forms of other prisoners moving about. Where were they? Were his parents among them? Would he see them one last time? Was he even on Delta team?

He felt someone taking him by the shoulders and leading him to one of the bunks on the far side. A pair of strong hands pushed him down onto the bunk, but he shook his head numbly, his eyes casting over the commotion in the muster room.

"I wanna help," he whispered. His voice was a weak croak, but he barely noticed.

"Not now, kid." It was the voice of the man who had whispered in his ear.

He tried weakly to argue, feeling strangely like he was in some dream—or nightmare, really. "But my—"

The man cut him off. "What's your name, kid?"

"Kyp," he answered mechanically. His eyes then looked up, registering for the first time that someone was talking to him.

A young man stared back down at him. He was pale—everyone was pale, Kyp realized dully—with almost white-blonde hair and grey eyes. He was not wearing a thermal suit, but the man's pale hands were helping Kyp out of his. "Hello, Kyp," he said, unfastening the seals at Kyp's neck. "I'm Dax."

Kyp said nothing. He simply sat, his body beginning to shiver once again as it had in the caves—the mines, he corrected himself. He was aware that he was shivering, because the man—Dax—had tried to still him somewhat by rubbing his shoulders. Kyp, however, merely watched with a numb detachment. He didn't even feel the man's hands. He was isolated. Alone.

His trembling grew worse, and his lungs burned with a pain worse than what he felt in the mines. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't swallow. Tears began to course down his cheeks in earnest, but he could not even lift a hand to brush them away.

Why couldn't he have died in the mines? Why was he still here? Why was this stranger helping him instead of his mother? She should be taking care of him, not this strange man with his pale hair, pale skin, and pale eyes! In a flash of anger, he raised his arms and batted the man's hands away, pushing himself further into the bunk and drawing his knees to his chest in one fluid movement.

"Leave me alone," he said.

"Kid, I'm only trying to—"

"Leave me alone!" he screamed. He was dimly aware of the stares from the other prisoners, but he didn't care. Let them stare, he thought. "I hate you!" he cried, louder this time. "I hate all of you! You killed them! You killed them and left me alive! You killed them and left me alone! You left me ALONE!"

A hand came out of nowhere and seized his arm, and Kyp winced, feeling bruises from the rough handling his arm had already received. Without warning, he was pulled out of his bunk and thrown to the floor by a prisoner he had seen fight with his father on many occasions. The man towered over him. He had the appearance of someone who had been a fighter once, a strong man to be feared. Time in the mines had eaten away at his muscle and robbed his skin of color, but the man was still formidable, and Kyp unintentionally shrank back.

"You wanna die, kid?" the man growled at him. "You wanna die right now and join them?"

Kyp almost said yes, but he didn't have the chance.

The other prisoner, Dax, quickly threw himself between this towering threat and Kyp, saying, "Sure, let's just kill each other so there's no one left! Let's do for ourselves what the Empire couldn't and get rid of us all!"

"Nothin' wrong with getting' rid of dead weight!" the larger man argued. "Kid's been worthless since he got here!"

"He's a child!"

"A waste of food, and air, and space!"

Dax had advanced on the man. "And as far as these guards are concerned, so are you! So just shut up!" Kyp stared as the smaller man stood his ground and continued ranting. "You heard them! New management, same hell! This is Kessel! We're all worthless! Why else are we down here? So just back off and let us all go back to living our meaningless, worthless lives!"

The larger man stood silently for a moment. "I'm not gonna' look out for no kid," he finally snarled.

"Don't worry," Dax retorted. "I'll do it myself."

Without another word, the other man turned around and disappeared into the mass of prisoners.

Dax looked back down at Kyp, his pale cheeks flushed and his grey eyes sharp and cold. For a long time, he just stood there, staring down at him, saying nothing. Kyp stared back, unmoving.

"I just stuck my neck out for you, kid," the pale man finally said.

Kyp did not move but to utter a simple word. "Why?"

He watched as Dax drew a deep breath and answered, "Dunno." He didn't say anything else.

The pain in Kyp's chest returned. "Should've left me alone," he whispered as he looked down at the floor.

There was another long silence, and then Dax was crouched in front of him. Kyp looked up, and he noted that the man's grey eyes had softened. "No one should be alone, kid," he said.

But I am alone, thought Kyp, his chin trembling slightly as new tears threatened to form in his eyes. I'm alone, he thought. He could feel it deep in his heart.

As if reading his mind, Dax said softly, "You're not alone. Not while I'm around."

And Kyp felt as well as heard the truth in his words.

Sure enough, Dax kept his word. He stayed by Kyp's side, making sure he was not alone, making sure there was someone to care for him even while he began teaching him how to take care of himself. The two of them kept a low profile, blending in, drawing little or no attention to themselves, working day after day to survive. Dax helped him to become stronger, too, and soon, Kyp began to rely upon Dax less and less, needing him only for the friendship the man gave and which Kyp gladly reciprocated. In a way, Dax gave Kyp what his parents could not: a foundation for both trust and independence. Kyp grew up quickly with Dax by his side.

And then one day, two years later, Dax simply disappeared. He had gone down into the mines, and he had not come back. He was the fourth to disappear in such a fashion. The large brute who had wanted to kill Kyp had been the second. Kyp had felt a touch of the numbing shock of loss when he had arrived back at the muster room to find that Dax had not made it back. Then he had drawn himself up, stripped out of his thermal suit, and climbed into his bunk.

He was alone again.

He was alone, but this time he knew he would survive.

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A/N: Please be kind and review.


	2. Chapter 2: Kessel, Age 12

Disclaimer: I don't own anything on this here page. George does. It's his galaxy.

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Kessel—Age 12

"What did you just call me?" The grizzled man who now spoke stood at the table, glaring at the boy sitting opposite him.

Kyp locked eyes with the man, but said nothing.

"Hey!" the man spat, reaching over to knock the remnants of Kyp's watery gruel onto the boy's lap. "I asked you a question, runt!"

Kyp's spoon, which had been held tightly in the boy's hand, went sailing through the air with brutal force to land square on the man's forehead as Kyp leapt to his feet crying, "Imperial scum!"

The man dove across the table, reaching for the collar of Kyp's shirt, but the boy ducked and darted behind another nearby table, grabbing someone else's dinnerware and hurling it at his approaching enemy. Kyp could hear the cheers and jeers around him—the workers were practically polarized into two camps: those who had been imprisoned by the Imperials, and the Imperial guards who had been sent to join them in the mines after the revolt three years ago. As there was little time for socializing in the mines and even less time for fighting, the two groups had lived together in a sort of uneasy truce. Unless, on the rare occasion, someone lit a fuse.

It seemed that today, young Kyp was that fuse.

The man who now lumbered after him was nearly twice his size and three times his age, but Kyp had the advantage of speed and agility, and he easily ducked and dodged the man's advances. He was surprised that the other workers had yet to join the fray; he supposed they were too intent on seeing who would gain the upper hand.

It didn't take long to find out. Kyp had snatched a bowl, which he sent sailing toward the former Imperial. The bowl struck, coating the man in grayish slime and causing Kyp to laugh as he jumped out of the man's reach. Yet, someone's foot—an Imperial foot, Kyp later suspected—darted out and caught Kyp's ankle as he dodged. Sent off balance, Kyp toppled, landing hard upon his right knee and causing his leg to bend at an odd angle beneath his weight. He cried out in pain even as he pushed with his arms to lift himself from the floor. Not fast enough, he felt a violent tug on his hair, which had grown far too long during his imprisonment. He screamed, tumbling backwards only to be lifted from his feet by the grasp the other man had on his hair. He kicked backward with his left leg, wincing as he felt his heel meet soft tissue between the man's legs. He heard the man's scream an instant before Kyp felt the hard floor impact his injured knee as the man released his hold.

It was only then that the guards emerged from their stations, hauling both Kyp and his adversary up from the floor now that neither of them posed a threat. Cowards, Kyp thought with a snarl, biting his lip as he tried to stand on his left leg and feeling warm blood trickling from his scalp where the man had managed to pull some of his hair out by the roots. The other prisoners were driven back, and several guards wearing mismatched Stormtrooper armor surrounded the two brawlers.

Two bulky, misshapen men suddenly stepped into the circle, and Kyp cringed. Boss Ruan and his crony Roke—the true authority among the prisoners—stood glaring.

"What in all hells is going on in here?" the larger of the two, Boss Ruan, bellowed.

Kyp said nothing, answering only with the hateful glare with which he had targeted the former Imperial. As a habit, Kyp rarely spoke, preferring actions to words and reluctant to engage in any conversation with either his captors or the prisoners who had once sworn allegiance to an Empire that had robbed him of his family and sent him to live out his childhood down here.

His adversary, however, had no qualms about speaking up. "The kid's out of his mind!" Kyp had the perverse satisfaction of hearing the strain in his voice. It was obvious that he was in a lot of pain—pain that Kyp had justly dealt.

"You're all out of your minds," Ruan retorted impatiently. "That doesn't explain what happened!"

"They just went at each other," a voice offered from somewhere in the crowd of prisoners.

"And they're both pathetic!" came Ruan's reply. "A kid who ain't never seen the sunlight and an Imperial weakling who finally met his equal. I should'a just let 'em kill each other. Would've rid the galaxy of its two worst mistakes!"

Kyp stiffened, trembling slightly with rage in the grip of one of the guards behind him, but still saying nothing.

Ruan continued to bellow, "Now, I want this place cleaned up, and I don't want any more of this dumb brawlin'! You hear me?" He didn't seem to care for an answer, as he quickly added, "Now get to work!"

The guards slowly began their retreat toward the security area, leaving only a few remaining behind to watch over prisoners and to make sure that the fight didn't simply resume.

Kyp limped over to the nearest table and began to pick up the various bowls, cups, and utensils that had been scattered during the brawl, ignoring the stares of the other workers around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his adversary grabbed a cloth and began to wipe up the spilled gruel, starting with what covered his neck and chest. Kyp grinned with dark pleasure and continued his efforts. He winced in pain as he moved to tuck a stray hair behind his ear, pulling his finger back to see blood coating the tip; but he simply set his jaw and continued his efforts. He had just bent to retrieve what looked like a blunted knife when an unfamiliar sound echoed through the room.

The metal doors which led to a seldom-used elevator at the far end of the room opened to reveal a tall, almost impossibly lanky man who entered with several guards and what appeared to be six prisoners in tow. Kyp, without thinking, palmed the piece of metal he had just picked up and stared.

Boss Ruan had immediately returned, crossing the hall to stand in front of the assembled group who had just arrived, Roke lumbering along behind him. "What's this, Skynxnex?"

"New workers for you, Ruan," the tall visitor spoke in an icy tone.

Kyp's eyes widened in shock. These were people from the outside! He glanced over each of the newcomers with blatant awe. He saw four humans, one of whom appeared to be positively ancient, an enormous blue-skinned alien with three arms, and an adolescent Rodian. All seemed terrified, with the exception of the blue-skinned alien, whose face was unreadable, and the ancient crone, who simply blinked around at her surroundings from beneath a rotting cloak. Her eyes suddenly seemed to be searching for something, and as her gaze met Kyp's, he felt a chill along his spine.

He shuddered at the strange intensity of that gaze and looked away.

"How many?" Ruan asked.

"Six," the tall one, Skynxnex answered in his cold voice. "Find suits for them, and get them ready to go out. I want this group in the mines as soon as possible."

Kyp's shoulders sagged in disappointment over hearing that these newcomers would not be immediately available for news from the outside. However, in watching the expressions made by Ruan and Roke, he found he could not smother the smirk that appeared on his face.

The two men almost immediately launched into a bizarre argument over the ability to secure a suit for the three-armed alien and suits for each of the five other beings on such short notice. Skynxnex appeared to take no notice and departed with a simple and authoritative, "Find a way!"

Once the doors had been sealed behind him, Ruan turned to Roke. "You're in charge of securing thermal suits!"

Roke's lumpy, misshapen face took on a comically shocked expression. "Me?"

"Do it now, Roke!" And with that, Ruan stormed off, leaving a seething Roke in his wake.

"Vima can make one, she can," a voice like brittle flimsiplast spoke. "Vima is useful, always useful."

Kyp craned his neck, and his eyes fell on the crone once again. She was looking up at Roke with a pleading smile on her aged face. He felt a stab of pity as he followed her gaze and saw the way Roke was staring back at her. Something in the man's countenance suggested that she would not survive in the mines for long.

"You will let Vima make his suit," the crone added, her voice taking on a strange tone.

Kyp looked away, not wanting to see the display of violent anger which would inevitably follow. Roke did not suffer to be told what to do, unless Ruan did the telling. Hell, sometimes it seemed that Roke was just poised and ready to take Ruan's position as Boss.

"I will let Vima make his suit."

A ripple of shock went through the entire group of prisoners. Had they heard correctly? Had Roke just agreed to the crone's suggestion? With a fresh wave of curiosity and not a small touch of admiration, Kyp returned his attention to the old woman, who—to his dismay—was looking at him once more. Tearing his gaze from her, he looked back at Roke who was shaking his head dumbly and ordering several guards to gather as many suits as they could, even the ones that seemed useless. Then he whispered a few words to the crone and stalked back to the security area.

There was a general commotion in the muster room at his departure. Clean-up detail forgotten, Kyp sank down at one of the tables and began musing over the mysterious crone who had just arrived and the strange impact she had made upon Roke. If there was a trick to it, Kyp certainly wanted to know what it was. Such a trick would definitely come in handy. And thinking of handy . . ..

Kyp glanced down at the item he had innocuously palmed. On closer inspection, it turned out not to be a knife at all, but rather, the broken handle of one of the spoons. Where the metal had snapped somehow, a sharp diagonal edge ran from the midpoint of the handle to the end, creating a very small, very pointed makeshift blade. Very handy, indeed.

"You glow, boy," a brittle voice spoke beside him abruptly, causing Kyp to jump, nearly dropping his prize.

Blinking his eyes at the figure in front of him, Kyp could only stammer, "What?"

A face marked by more wrinkles than Kyp could have ever imagined on any single face seemed to hover just within his field of vision, surrounded by a rotting, weathered cloak that concealed the rest of the being's body save for two skeletal, talon-like hands. One held the frayed edges of the cloak while the other reached out toward Kyp, causing him to draw back. "You glow," she repeated, a smile forming upon her face, which caused her to look even more hideous than she had before. "You pulse in the Force. Vima sees it. Vima knows."

"I," Kyp stammered, drawing further back, "I what? I don't understand."

The aged figure tossed a glance over her shoulder indicating the security area. "You liked that trick, yes?" she asked, her smile widening. "Vima can teach you."

Kyp knew instantly that she was referring to the incident with Roke. His eyes widened. "You can teach me?" he asked in disbelief. "You can teach me to do what you did?"

The old woman nodded. "Yes, if you are ready to learn from old Vima."

Mutely, Kyp nodded.

The crone's wide smile sent her face into countless creases and folds. "Vima will return. After she has finished her task for the blue-skinned one, Vima will return to teach you the ways of the Force." She then turned and headed away from him, presumably to somehow make a thermal suit for the gigantic three-armed prisoner.

Kyp watched her go in breathless anticipation. Feeling the metal in his hand, the ache in his knee, and the excitement in his chest, his face broke into a wide grin. He had fought a former Imp, and he hadn't lost. He had found a simple piece of metal that could be used as a weapon. And now he was going to learn how to do a trick that would certainly come in useful down here in the hell that was Kessel.

For a twelve year-old prisoner, this about as good as things could possibly get. Fortune was smiling on him, and he wasn't about to let that go to waste.

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**A/N:** Uh, I hate to beg, but a review would be nice . . .. Even a "nice try, but you need to work on your characterization/plot/grammar/spelling/etc" would be appreciated. I'm not inviting flames, now, but a writer lives for feedback. How else can he or she improve? Just a little, teensy weensy review would be cool.


	3. Chapter 3: The Core Worlds

A/N: The usual disclaimers apply. This is probably one of the most angst-ridden pieces I've ever written, and it isn't even from Kyp's point of view. I wrote it because I was really disappointed with the way KJA handled the emotional fallout from Kyp's turn to the Dark Side, as well as Han's handling of it as well. I mean, as KJA writes it, Han's just hoping to get Kyp off the hook when Kyp is standing before the Council on Coruscant. Uh, this is the same kid who put Luke in a coma. I don't think the situation would be that simple. So here's my take on it.

Again, reviews would be really, really lovely!

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The Core—Following the Destruction of Carida

"Kyp?" Han Solo's voice called as he maneuvered into the Sun Crusher. Lando had slaved the warship to the Falcon once more, but Han needed to be certain—needed to be absolutely, positively sure that the kid's surrender was genuine. And if that meant boarding the Sun Crusher and dealing with the kid face to face, then that was what he had to do. Hand resting upon the blaster at his hip, he called again, "Kyp?"

"Here, Han," an impossibly small and toneless voice replied.

Han turned toward the voice to see a figure slumped in the pilot's seat, unmoving and staring toward the controls without seeming to see anything. If the kid hadn't answered, Han would have wondered if he was alive. Kyp was as pale as death.

There was no telling how long Han stood in frozen uncertainty, staring at the shrunken, defeated form before him. He couldn't speak—there were no words to say. He couldn't move—he was almost afraid to go any closer. That thought brought an ache to his chest. How had this kid somehow managed to go from youthful companion to promising Jedi to mass murderer in such a short time? How had someone so small—so young—gone so, so very wrong? And what was Han supposed to do now--now that the kid had surrendered? Now that his killing spree was over?

"I won't," he heard Kyp's voice speak again, breaking the spell of silence, "I won't resist." The kid's voice cracked. "Do what you have to, Han."

With feet like lead, Han crossed the distance to stand at Kyp's side. This close, the kid looked even worse. His cheeks seemed hollow, his lips colorless and cracked. Dark rings shadowed his eyes—eyes that were alarmingly empty. Not scared, not resigned, not remorseful. Just empty. They seemed not to even register Han's presence.

The former smuggler suppressed a shudder. An icy chill had joined the ache in his chest. "Kid," he began, and had to pause and swallow, surprised by how dry his mouth and throat had become. "Kid, I'm takin' you back to Coruscant."

If Kyp heard him, Han couldn't tell. His face remained an expressionless mask.

Reaching for one of the arms that hung limply at the kid's side, Han said, "Come on, kid. Let's get you back on the Falcon."

To his surprise, Kyp flinched as Han touched his arm, his eyes darting to the blaster at the man's hip. Something flickered in his eyes.

"Kill me."

The chill spread outward from Han's chest to engulf his body even as he gazed at the kid in disbelief. He couldn't have heard what he thought he heard. Not from Kyp.

Dark-rimmed eyes lifted to meet Han's, and he saw that the emptiness in them had been replaced by a look of haunted desperation. "Kill me, Han," the youth repeated, the words a strangled plea. Tears began to form in the corners of those eyes, but the face was still slack, still death-like.

"No." Han's response was clipped, instinctive.

"Do it." The words were louder, more forceful.

Han shook his head, taking an involuntary step back. "No, kid." The kid didn't know what he was asking. He didn't know what he was saying. He couldn't want to die.

"Kill me, please," Kyp begged, and this time, to Han's horror, the death-like mask began to fall away, revealing all of the kid's anguish, all of his guilt. The tears slipped from his eyes and began to stream down a face that was crumbling under the strain of his pain. "I don't deserve to live."

"Kid, I won't do it!" Han yelled, fueled more by fear and shock than by anger.

The volume and the strength of his voice, however made Kyp wince. A second later, Kyp was grabbing for the blaster, not with the Force, but with flailing, desperate arms that Han struggled to keep from reaching the gun. A thin knee connected with Han's stomach, and the man bent double as a thin arm worked its way toward his holster. Too late, Han shifted to intercept it, and the blaster was in Kyp's hand. The hand that had been moving to intercept his grasp circled the kid's wrist, and Han used his weight to shove Kyp back against the pilot's seat. Kyp's blaster-hand rammed against the edge, sending the blaster tumbling out of his grasp to skid across the deck.

"No!" Kyp shrieked, still struggling against the Han's grip on him. "No, you don't understand!" He continued to rave. "I killed them! I killed them! I deserve to die!"

Han refused to let go, fighting against both Kyp's struggles and the despair the kid's words had planted in his heart. "Kid, listen to me!" he hollered over Kyp's cries. "Listen to me!"

But Kyp refused to listen. Instead, he wrenched his arms free and threw himself at Han. Unprepared for the impact, Han managed only to pull his own arms in to try to block what he thought was an attempt to knock him to the ground. What he didn't expect was for Kyp to bury his face in Han's vest, pale hands clinging to the black material as the youth cried out in tortured sobs.

"I'm sorry!" he wailed against Han's chest. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

Stunned, Han could only stand there mutely as the kid vented every horrible, gut-wrenching emotion he now suffered as a result of his vendetta against the Empire. Han's hands trembled as they slowly came to rest on the kid's quaking shoulders in some vain attempt to give what comfort he could, though there was, he suddenly realized, no comfort to be given.

Kyp had slaughtered, millions . . . possibly _billions_ . . .including his own brother. The New Republic would not forgive this. The Empire would not even forgive this. And Kyp would never forgive himself. Resting his chin on the kid's head, Han understood that Kyp's desire for death would probably be granted. The New Republic would, in all likelihood, execute him as a terrorist and genocidal madman. Han had only managed to postpone the inevitable. He glanced at the blaster where it lay upon the deck and drew a shuddering breath, tightening his hold on the sobbing youth.

Kyp might have wanted death, the New Republic might still give it to him, but Han Solo would never be the one to pull that trigger. And if that meant that he stood in the way of justice, so be it.

"I destroyed everything, Han." Kyp's muffled voice held more anguish than any Han had ever heard. The kid's sobbing continued, his pale fingers ever tightening their hold on his vest. "Carida. Zeth . . . oh stars! I killed him! I watched him die! And I did it! I killed him! I killed them all! I'm so sorry! I'm sorry, Zeth! Zeth, I'm so sorry!"

Han could feel the kid's strength beginning to wane as his body grew heavier against his chest. The kid's legs were shaking, and Han slowly lowered them to the deck, knowing that he could not hold the kid up forever and not knowing how long his sobs would continue. Kyp, himself, seemed not to notice the shift in position, as his uninterrupted wails and apologies continued in a voice that was growing more and more hoarse with each word and cry. Han doubted there were enough tears in the universe to ease the kid's pain. Even his own face had grown damp.

He had been at the Academy when every Jedi student there had felt Carida's destruction. He had heard their screams and the screams of his own wife and children as they somehow sensed the countless deaths. He had watched a former CorSec officer lose his emotional control and his lunch atop the Jedi Temple in the impact of what had happened. It had been Corran Horn who had told Han about Carida . . .about Kyp's brother. Han would not have believed the former CorSec officer could fall apart if Han had not been there to see it.

But Kyp had been the one responsible.

No doubt he now felt the impact of the deaths he had caused, compounding a guilt Han couldn't even begin to fathom.

Where they knelt on the deck, Han gently began to rock back and forth, as he would when comforting one of his children. Kyp continued to weep in his arms, but his voice grew softer, the muffled apologies becoming mumbled whispers against the fabric of Han's shirt. Han caught only snatches of these, and what he heard brought fresh tears to his eyes.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Han," the kid whispered brokenly. "You were my friend . . .. You were my friend, and I hurt you . . .. I nearly killed you."

Han swallowed deeply, forcing himself to speak through a voice tight with emotion. "But you didn't kill me, Kyp," he whispered into the kid's hair. "I'm still here."

Against his chest, Kyp shook his head. The kid was responding. "I hurt you . . .. I hurt M--" his voice faltered. "I hurt . . .Master Skywalker . . .."

Han closed his eyes, opening them quickly when the image of Luke, resting in state like a corpse in the Jedi temple, flashed into his mind. He could not think of Luke now—not even if Kyp was to blame. A person could only bear so much guilt upon their shoulders, and Kyp had far surpassed his share.

"I didn't want it to be like this," Kyp wept. "I didn't want . . .." But his voice finally failed him, and he gave himself over to wordless tears.

For a long while, Han just sat on the deck of the Sun Crusher, holding the kid in his arms, rocking him as his tears continued to fall. Kyp had been his friend, no matter what he had done, no matter what crimes he had committed, no matter what atrocities had been conducted through his quest for vengeance against the Empire. He knew that Kyp deserved whatever punishment he was given. He knew that Kyp would have to live with his guilt until such time as his life was taken as payment for his deeds. But right now, in spite of all that, Han knew that he was just a kid—a powerful kid who had spent his childhood in the mines of Kessel, who had spent such a pitifully brief time in freedom, who had taken the dark path Luke himself had told him was so quick and easy and seductive, and who now lived with the painful knowledge of his devastating choice. He was a kid who needed a friend—not to tell him that everything was going to be all right, but to simply be there.

Kyp shifted in his arms again and spoke in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry I tried to take the coward's way out, Han."

Puzzled, Han lifted his chin from atop Kyp's head and looked down.

"I shouldn't have tried to kill myself," the kid softly explained. "I deserve whatever punishment the New Republic decides to give me. I shouldn't have tried to escape that punishment through death."

Han sighed, a long sad sigh that made him feel . . . well, old. "They may choose death, Kyp." The words were blunt, honest, and they surprised him.

"I know," Kyp replied, drawing out of Han's arms to sit back on the deck. He looked up with bloodshot eyes, blotchy skin, and a determined expression. "But it's not for me to decide, is it? I have to take responsibility for my actions and face whatever consequences there may be. If they choose death, I will meet it on their terms. It is not for me to decide my fate. I know that now."

At his words, Han was speechless. He stared down at the young man who now sat facing him in wonder. Gone was the brash, inquisitive kid from Kessel. Gone was the uncertain yet daring youth who had vacationed with him such a short time ago. And gone was the broken, suicidal criminal he had encountered when he first entered the Sun Crusher. Instead, Han saw a young man who would have made Luke proud—a young man who, in this solitary moment, embodied the solemnity and understanding of destiny he had seen in Luke shortly after his own fall on Byss. Han didn't know what to say. In fact, there was nothing that he could say.

--

En route to Coruscant, Lando commed Han to tell him that Luke was all right. Han would have shouted in joy and relief, but a brief look at Kyp kept him quiet and subdued. Instead, he gave Lando a quick thanks before switching off the comm. and turning to face Kyp.

A solitary tear made its way down the young man's pale face. "I'm glad he's all right," Kyp said at length, his voice strained, but truthful. "I hope he doesn't blame himself . . . for me. I was the one who failed. It wasn't him."

Han forced himself to keep quiet. He just favored the kid with a brief, reassuring smile.

Later, when the finally reached Coruscant, Kyp maneuvered the Sun Crusher through the landing sequences, relinquishing the controls as soon as it had touched down and standing to face Han.

"I guess I'm ready to face the firing squad," he quipped dryly, a ghostly trace of his old self flickering in the brief half-smile he gave. It vanished quickly, however. The words were not funny.

He followed Han out of the craft, and Han watched him blink in the bright light of a Coruscant noon as the sunlight dazzled from the polished surfaces of multiple buildings. A full unit of New Republic guards was waiting for him, ready to take him into custody. Kyp dipped his chin in a brief sign of submission, and the guards promptly surrounded him.

Lando emerged from the Falcon in time to watch him go.

"Stars, he's just a kid, isn't he?" Han's old friend spoke in whispered tones. Kyp looked so small compared to the guards that were now escorting him from the landing platform.

Han watched Kyp disappear before saying, "Not anymore."


End file.
